


I've Got You

by TheCauldron



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Complete, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 22:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9205412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCauldron/pseuds/TheCauldron
Summary: Sometimes it's all too much to handle alone. Sometimes, the hand that helps comes from the most unexpected sources.





	

The first time Harry heard the words was in third year.

 

He was curled up in the corner of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, sobbing. There wasn’t anything specifically wrong at that moment; just the cumulative weight of his less than comfortable life, societal expectations, and the pressure of living up to his own legend. And the pervading aura cast over the school by the swarms of Dementors of course. Every time he closed his eyes he heard the scream and saw the flash of green light.

 

But when the willowy arms wrapped around him and held him close, and the crisp woodsy cologne that made him think of dawn on the first day of spring drifted teasingly in his nostrils, he found himself listening.

 

“It’s ok. I’ve got you.”

 

Harry felt the briefest urge to shove his would-be consoler away and explain in great and furious detail exactly why that was a load of bollocks, but he found himself calming instead, leaning against the solid warmth of his unlikely hero.

 

It wasn’t true of course. Nobody _got_ him. He was Harry Potter, and he stood alone before the world whether he wanted to or not. But for now, he let the lie stand.

 

As he buried his face in Draco Malfoy’s soft shirt, he let himself pretend.

 

***

 

The next time Harry heard the words was in fourth year. Harry was sitting at the top of the Astronomy tower, drinking himself into a coma on a pilfered bottle of Firewhiskey.

 

His name had just been called by the Goblet of Fire, and he had been told he had no choice but to compete against the older and much more capable contestants.

 

He was well aware that if this was a plot against his life – as he was fairly certain it was – then his chances of survival were so low as to be barely worth calculating.

 

He was leaning against the balustrade, staring down at the flagstones of the courtyard below and wondering how much it would hurt when he hit them, when he felt those willowy arms slip around his chilled body, and that beguiling scent teased his senses. He was drawn back against the firm chest, and he felt the lips move against his ear as they spoke, words felt more than heard.

 

“It’s ok. I’ve got you.”

 

It was still a lie, but Harry half turned in the embrace, nuzzling his face into the crook of Draco’s neck and allowed himself to pretend again.

 

Just for a while.

 

***

 

They never spoke of these encounters, and outside of them their behaviour towards each other was unchanged as far as everyone saw.

 

If anyone had taken the time to _look_ , they would have seen quiet glances voicing apologies that could never be spoken. A thousand conversations exchanged in a single moment of time when friends turned their backs and scowls and sneers could fall for the briefest of seconds.

 

They would have seen stolen moments of innocent comfort in the middle of the night.

 

They would have seen tears wiped by gentle hands and two terrified boys who by day pretended to be the soldiers their father figures demanded they be, lower their masks for just a moment.

 

But during the day they carried on pretending.

 

Always pretending.

 

***

 

The end of fifth year was the next time the words were spoken.

 

Harry had just left Dumbledore’s destroyed office, but had found his rage and grief unabated. He ducked into an abandoned classroom and proceeded to reduce the contents of the room into splinters no bigger than matchsticks.

 

When the destruction was complete, he sank to the floor in the middle of the room, his knees drawn tight to his chest, arms hugging them close and face buried against them. His sobs shook his too thin frame and he could feel the screams still burning in his chest.

 

And then the arms and scent and that wonderful warmth was there, and that beautiful lie was whispered through soft lips.

 

“It’s ok. I’ve got you.”

 

Harry felt something shift in his chest, and suddenly the grief and overwhelming fear didn’t seem so overwhelming after all. He burrowed into the lightly muscled chest and let himself be soothed. It was ok, he assured himself, he didn’t _really_ believe it. He was just pretending, as always.

 

Just pretending.

 

***

 

Harry’s sixth year was a ceaseless game of let’s-play-pretend.

 

A year of telling himself that the floral scent of Ginny’s perfume didn’t make his nose twitch unpleasantly, and that the feeling of her soft curves against his own hard lines didn’t make him want to violently shove her away from him.

 

A year of desperately trying to understand why he was following Draco night after night despite his vocal reasoning supplied to concerned friends.

 

A year of his stomach dropping as he watched the blonde boy fade and waste before his eyes.

 

He found himself in Myrtle’s bathroom again, but this time the tears weren’t on his own lightly tanned cheeks.

 

Approaching the taller boy, he gently wrapped his arms around the trembling body and pulled him close, gently supporting them both as they sank onto the floor. Arms tight around Draco’s shivering shoulders, Harry rocked him slightly, his forehead resting against blonde hair and his nose resting against a pale cheek.

 

“It’s ok,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

 

They both knew that terrible things were coming, and that they would be on opposite sides of the battlefield, but for now, for this aching moment as they sat with tangled limbs and breaking hearts, they could pretend.

 

***

 

Harry sagged as Voldemort’s vanquished form crumpled opposite him.

 

He had died, and chosen to come back.

 

For Draco.

 

Everything had been so clear in that otherworldly Kings Cross Station, and Harry knew that he couldn’t leave the pale boy behind to face a world ruled by a madman.

 

He couldn’t.

 

He wouldn’t.

 

And now it was done, and his aching body was being cradled oh so gently in the arms of the man who had begun stealing his heart on that cold bathroom floor in third year.

 

His rock.

 

His saviour.

 

As blackness stole his vision and he slipped into unconsciousness, he heard the words whispered into his ear.

 

“It’s ok. I’ve got you.”

 

It was, and Draco did.

 

He didn’t need to pretend anymore.


End file.
